


lover, please do not

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (yes), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mild Angst, Not So Mild Angst, Slow Burn, fighting in the candle light, hopefully, is it gay?, maybe even, or maybe, slight enemies to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26833048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: George is blacksmith with a mysterious past and a distinct lack of self-preservation skills. When he spots a castle in the distance, a castle that no one else can see, he has no choice but to check it out. But sometimes appearances are deceiving. Sometimes a castle is a trap and sometimes the bloodthirsty god in that castle is more complicated than he seems.(or, the Beauty and the Beast AU that spiraled vastly out of control and is now a thing of its own)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 364
Collections: Anonymous





	1. a single rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunnyafterset](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyafterset/gifts), [illusorx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illusorx/gifts).



> title from "Ghosts" by Laura Marling
> 
> dedicated (and now gifted) to the loveliest people in the world: ryan and mikey. i love you both so much. thank you for sticking with me through this whole thing :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George receives a warning.

_They said that before there were humans, there were gods. As humanity grew out of its infancy, the gods became their protectors._

_They say he was made at the banks of the River Syphon, molded from the clay there by his mother, the lady of the night. She wanted a son to protect those mortals in her dominion. He was to watch over them while they slept and keep them happy as he did so._

_And it was made so. The boy of clay, born on the banks of the River Syphon became the god of sleep._

_For a time, he was happy with his slice of the universe. His mother plucked stars from the sky to make him a crown and in return, he wove the most wonderful visions for the mortals as they slept. Even the gods flocked to him, asking him to make them visions of their own. And he did._

_They called him Dream._

_Then there was the King. No one knew his name because he did not like to give it. But everyone knew of his power, a thing as deadly as it was beautiful. No one had ever thought to cross him, for he had the power to bend even the strongest minds to his will. Illusions, trickery, and masterful deceit marked his rise to power._

_But Dream thought he could do better. He thought he could rule better. He knew he could rule better. It was he who was beloved by all the gods. And what were his visions if not clever illusions? What were dreams if not ways to bend people to one’s will?_

_And so, on the day the King requested a vision, Dream came up with a plan. The perfect prison, he called it. A curse so perfect he would never escape, for the only way he could do so was to die._

_And while the throne stood unattended? Dream would make his move and take what was rightfully his._

_He had yet to fail and so he did not know he could._

_But the King had eyes everywhere, including the minds of his people. And before Dream could even begin, the King placed him in the very trap he’d made._

_Never to be seen again._

* * *

The first time George sees the castle, he’s being chased by a group of persistent monsters.

One of their fingers snags on the back of George’s tunic. He can feel himself being pulled backwards. The collar of his shirt is choking him. He manages to make a quick turn and shake it off, but he can still hear the footsteps and groans behind him. His grip tightens on his sword. His feet are pounding on the uneven cobblestones, and he knows he’s going to hit a dead end; he can see it looming closer and closer as he runs. His breath is coming out in short bursts. He might just die of asphyxiation before they catch up with him.

He hits the dead end and turns, swinging blindly with his sword. It flies in a wide arc, hitting three of the five dead on. Their sallow skin splits at the cut and George winces. They were human once, cursed by fickle gods. A fate worse than death.

He tries to remember that. His strikes are a cruel sort of mercy.

The three he hit crumple to the ground and he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. The other two are closer now, and he swings again, harder this time. When they fall, he runs.

And that’s when he sees it. The castle, looming in the distance. It’s an eyesore of a building, but George can’t take his eyes off it. He stops running for a moment, just to stare at it. It’s terrible, awful. Something about it fills the pit of George’s stomach with dread. He feels the tug for a split second, like the dark stone is calling to him. It wants him to come closer. He wants to go closer.

~~_No._ ~~

He hears something move behind him and he whirls around. One of the monsters on the ground lets out a feeble wail.

He wishes he could save them. Just for a second he lets himself imagine that he can.

But he knows he can’t. Not unless he somehow finds a god to help him. And the gods that roamed his world were not the type to help.

He thinks about it anyway, as he’s falling asleep. His dreams are filled with roses and cracked porcelain, but he does not remember them when he wakes.

* * *

The next time, George is more coherent.

It’s remarkably sunny outside, especially for November, but there’s a chill in the air anyway. Autumn leaves are scattered across the ground. George attempts to stomp on one. It makes a feeble crunch beneath his feet. Disappointing.

Sapnap nudges him. “Do we have enough iron for that new sword?”

“I think so?” He shrugs.

“You’re the expert here. I’m just the materials guy.”

George sighs. “I’m not an _expert._ ”

“Yeah not an expert. Just a blacksmith. The _only_ blacksmith for, like, miles.” Sapnap’s grinning at him.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. “Just because I’m the only one doesn’t mean I’m the—”

He freezes. There, on one of the hills outside the village is the castle. He’d half thought it’d been a dream or some hallucination conjured by his sleep-addled mind. But there it was, clear as day. In the mid-morning light, it’s easier to see the ripped banners and crumbling parapets. There are remnants of flags, tattered edges fluttering in the wind. It looks just as unkempt as it is imposing.

George nudges outside and points at the castle. “What’s up there?”

“Huh?” Sapnap turns and squints at where George is pointing.

George rolls his eyes. “The giant castle?” he says, punctuating his words with more pointing.

“What are you talking about?”

“The. Castle.”

“Heard you the first time. Still don’t see anything.” Sapnap, having given up on squinting at the castle, turns back around to face George.

George rubs at his eyes, as if to confirm what he’s seeing (and he _is_ seeing it). “You really don’t?”

Sapnap frowns. “Nope, nothing.”

George barely hears him. Is he seeing things? Has he been cursed, forever to be haunted by this mass of black stone? If it is a curse, it’s a pretty terrible one. Haunting via gothic architecture probably isn't the most effective way of killing someone. George shakes the thought off. He's not going to die.

He feels himself shudder as he glances at it again. Something about it seems… off. He can feel the hot rush of blood in his veins, his heart pumping in overdrive. That tug in the pit of his stomach is back, stronger than it was the night before. Every inch of his body is willing him to move. _Move_. He takes a shaky step forward.

~~_Don’t look._ ~~

He wants to get closer to it. He wants to run his fingertips across the worn stones. It’s singing to him.

~~_Don’t look at it!_ ~~

“George. George!”

He flinches. Sapnap’s hand is heavy on his shoulder. When did he put his hand on George’s shoulder?

“What? Did you say something?”

“Maybe you should get some rest…”

Sapnap clearly thinks something's wrong. George is pretty sure Sapnap's right. He doesn’t want to worry him, though.

George shakes his head, cutting him off. He forces a laugh. “I can’t believe you fell for that.“

“What?”

“Yeah you should have seen the look on your face.”

Sapnap doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he laughs anyway. “Yeah okay. Fucking dork.”

George rolls his eyes. “Come on, we need to buy flour. Or you know, we could starve.”

“Better than hanging out with you.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Somewhere, not too far away, someone breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

That night he dreams again. But this time, he remembers.

He’s in a field of rose petals. The smell is overwhelming and he’s sinking into them, even as he claws at the petals around him for purchase. He’s falling into the endless sea of dull yellow, every part of him buried in it except for his head. The scent seems to curl around him, sour and bitter and coating the back of his mouth like a badly made potion. He hates it with every fiber of his being.

And then, out of the dull fog comes a hand. He doesn’t know where it comes from, but he can’t see the rest of the figure. He tries to grab the hand with his, but he moves sluggishly, like he’s swimming through molasses. The figure in the fog moves forward and now George can see them. They look blurry, as if he’s looking at them through glass fogged by his own breath. The figure reaches forward and tugs him out of his flowery grave. Their hands are warm against his skin.

And then the petals are gone and he’s standing in an endless void of black. The figure is still in front of him, their hand gripping his. They’re clad in white and yellow (so much yellow), but they still look blurred. He can see them out of the corner of his eye, but whenever he attempts to look at them head on, they just shift in and out of focus.

George almost wants to go back to the sea of flowers. At least there he could see _something_.

 _When you start seeing roses, run,_ the figure says. The voice sounds masculine. _Run as fast as you can in the other direction._

“What?”

_Leave home and run. Don’t stop running._

George looks down at his hand, which the figure is still holding on to. “Who are you?”

_It doesn’t matter._

“Tell me who you are!” George leans closer. He can’t see anything. Why can’t he see anything?

_You need to wake up now._

“No!” He tries to move, but there’s some invisible force pinning him in place. Is it the figure?

_WAKE. UP._

The figure presses their index finger into George’s forehead. It feels cool, like a brush of air.

He’s missing something important. If only he knew what it was. If he could only just—

George wakes to the sound of birds.

He sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes with one hand. What a weird dream… And all that stuff about roses and thorns was worrying. Maybe he’s just having stress dreams. Or maybe he’s being haunted by evil plant creatures as well. Just another thing to add to the list.

He gets up and peers at himself in the mirror. He looks tired, the smudges under his eyes growing darker with each day. Stress dreams. Just stress dreams.

He drags a hand over his face and opens the door to the hallway. Pain jolts through his foot and George winces, lifting it up gingerly.

There, underneath it is a single rose, lying on the floor right in front of his door. Its thorns are tipped in his blood.

What.

A rose. Just like the dream. What was it that the figure had said? Run when you see roses?

Just a stress dream. George takes a deep breath. It was just a stress dream and a weird coincidence. Probably just a payback prank. (A terrible one, but still.)

He’s going to go downstairs and eat some bread and forget about castles and weird roses and blurry figures. Everything is going to be fine.

George walks into the forge, careful not to put too much pressure on his bleeding foot. Sapnap is sitting at the workbench, carefully weighing their iron stores.

“Picked any roses lately?”

Sapnap looks up, smirking. “No? Why? You got a secret crush who likes flowers?”

George feels blood rush to his cheeks. “What, no, I just—” He holds out the rose. “I found this outside my door.”

“Oh a secret admirer then.”

“No!” How would someone have even gotten the rose inside?

Sapnap cackles, he _cackles_ . George is being haunted by some gothic castle, rose loving _demon_ and there sits his best friend, laughing his ass off.

“Oh man, you’re so red. Georgie, someone likes you,” Sapnap says, dragging out the words much longer than necessary.

“I fucking hate you,” George says, flipping Sapnap off as he leaves the forge. He makes sure to slam the door behind him.

The kitchen is bright, light slanting through the windows. George spots his sword by the door along with his rucksack. His hands curl into fists. Fine. If the world is so determined to haunt him, he might as well just see what all the fuss is about.

He grabs his sword and its sheath, strapping it to his waist. He doesn’t bother with a shield; it would probably weigh him down anyway. He does grab some apples and bread and shove them in his rucksack. They should tide him over if he gets stranded or lost. Finally, he grabs his compass from where it’s sitting at the table.

When he steps outside, he can see the castle, just past the woods outside of the village. He’s going to raid that castle and he’s going to be back in time for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you liked this chapter because i nearly spilled water all over my laptop while writing it. one kudos equals one prayer for my steadily diminishing sanity and motor control
> 
> i'm going to attempt a somewhat regular update schedule (maybe one chapter every two weeks? i would make them more frequent, but i have Much Work)
> 
> anyway, thanks again for reading and i'll see you in two weeks (hopefully)
> 
> come yell at me at glow-squid-supremacy.tumblr.com


	2. god of hubris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George meets a cat (and also a god, but that's less important).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said two weeks (and then i said by the end of this month) and i was wrong both times. i am a fraud, it's true. but i hope i can make up for the wait with a slightly longer chapter (at least longer than the last one). i have fewer deadlines this month so the next chapter will be out in two weeks for real this time. i hope you enjoy it!

George has been going through the forest for what seems like hours. His feet are sore from walking, his hands sore from gripping his sword as he does. It’s nothing new, he is a blacksmith after all, but the sun is sitting low and heavy on the horizon. He has less than an hour of sunlight left. Maybe more, if he’s lucky. There’s no way he can make it back home in time, even if he turns back around now.

He grits his teeth. If he stays, there’s a good chance he might end up injured. Or dead, but he’s trying very hard not to think about that possibility.

George taps his compass, holding it steady against his palm. The metal is cool against his fingers. He’s going in the right direction, he knows he is, but he should have been at the castle hours ago. Trust a weird disappearing castle to be wishy-washy with their location as well.

He stops. Thinks.

The castle is clearly magic, that much is obvious. And he’d assumed that it would just stay in the same place. Like an idiot.

It’s only then that it dawns on him, as panic seeps up his spine. He might die here. He could be mauled by a monster or a bear and no one would even know. He didn’t even leave Sapnap a note. If he dies here his last words to his best friend might be “I fucking hate you.” Of all the stupid ideas he’s ever had, this one is the worst. And maybe the last.

He needs to get to the castle. That’s the only chance he has at survival. At seeing his best friend again. If he can get a higher vantage point, maybe he’ll be able to see it and reroute himself in the right direction.

George drops his rucksack on the forest floor and wipes his hands on his pants, stepping forward and wrapping one hand around a low hanging branch. He uses the other to stabilize himself against the trunk before clambering up onto another branch. And then another. One branch at a time. He makes it to the top of the tree just in time to see the bottom of the sun dip just below the horizon. He has around twenty minutes left before darkness falls.

He turns, searching for the stone turrets in the sea of green treetops. It takes him a moment before he spots it, dead in front of him, maybe a mile away. If he runs, he might be able to get there before the monsters come out for the night. He’ll probably have to sleep there. Sleeping in a maybe haunted (most likely magical) castle might not be the best idea he’s ever had, but it beats out dying by a large margin.

He climbs down the tree as quickly as he can, not bothering to stop when parts of his clothes snag on branches or when his hands scrape against the tree bark.

And then he’s running, barely stopping to snag up his bag from the base of the tree. The forest floor blurs beneath his feet and he can feel himself stumblinging over rocks and leaves and twigs. But he doesn’t stop, not even when he trips and ends up face first in the dirt. He gets to his feet and he keeps going. This is his only chance and he’s going to take it.

The tree line ends and George stumbles to a halt, arms flailing to help regain his balance.

There it is.

It’s so much worse up close. George can feel it, that gut feeling of wrongness. It feels like it’s splitting him in two. He wants to go inside. He should be inside. But he shouldn’t be. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. His head is pounding and he feels his sight blur. He steps forward unconsciously, reaching out a shaking hand to brush against the stone.

He flinches. It’s cold, colder than it should be. But it feels nice, almost. Like he was meant to be there. He shivers.

He presses the palm of his hand against the warped wood of the door. The metal embellishments are icy against his skin. The door opens easily, more easily than George had been expecting, but for some reason he doesn’t question it.

It’s colder inside. He can barely see his hands in front of him in the dark. He should have brought a torch. Why didn’t he bring a torch?

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he starts to make out the shape of a grand staircase. It looks like there’s a stained glass window above it. If it were brighter outside, George imagines it would be beautiful. He squints. It looks like an image of a young, masked man. He’s holding a rose loosely in one hand, red glass petals fluttering off of it as if buffeted by the wind. It reminds him of a legend he heard somewhere, some long forgotten bedtime story. Something about the gods.

The door slams shut behind him.

George jumps, turning to press against the door. It doesn’t budge. He’s trapped.

He’s going to die. 

Something shifts in the darkness and George stiffens. The shadow peels off from the staircase and moves towards him. It meows.

Oh.

The cat winds around George’s ankles and George can hear it purr softly in the darkness.

“Hey buddy.” He crouches, running a hand across the cat’s head. “How’d you get in here?”

It headbutts at his hand.

“Are you hungry? We might be able to find some food in this place.”

“She’s fine.”

George lets out a yelp and scrambles to his feet. His hand is already on the pommel of his sword when he hears someone snap their fingers.

One by one, the candles on the giant chandelier above him come to life. Flames sputter to life in the fireplace to George’s right, illuminating the foyer. There, standing on the steps of the grand staircase, is the figure from George’s dream. He’s wearing yellow and white, just like he’d been in the dream. His face is half hidden by a white porcelain mask. Identical to the mask in the window.

“You,” he says. “I know you.” He doesn’t sound nearly as aggressive as he wants to.

The figure runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. And I told you not to come here. You shouldn’t even be able to see this.” He sounds like he’s talking more to himself than to George. “Did  _ he _ send you?” His voice is even, but George knows it’s fake. He can hear the cold rage underneath the faux politeness.

He backs into the door, hand still gripping his sword. “W-who?” he manages to choke out.

He’s trapped in a giant castle with an angry, mask-wearing man who’s been haunting him and he is going to die a terrible, awful death. He’s going to die and there won’t even be a body to bury because no one will ever find him. He’ll lie here forever, in this invisible death trap of a castle.

“Playing dumb won’t help you. Tell me what he wants.” He walks down the steps. There’s an axe in his right hand. It glints silver in the light from the candles. It’s  _ glowing _ .

“I don’t know anything, I swear!” George hates the note of desperation that creeps into his voice.

“Don’t you?” The figure cocks his head. He’s only a foot away, now.

George tries the handle again, praying somehow the door has unlocked itself.

The figure uses the head of the axe to tilt George’s head up. Through the mask, George can barely see his eyes, hidden in shadow as they are. He swears they glint golden.

George realizes abruptly that he doesn’t want to die.

“Tell me, then. Why would you come running here after I wasted so much time telling you not to? Any smart person would stay far,  _ far _ away.”

“Maybe I’m just stupid,” George blurts out.

The figure’s eyes narrow.

George squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t kill me. I’m as normal as they come, I promise.”

“You’re clearly not if you can see my castle.”

“I don’t know why I see this stupid thing! I thought you were haunting me!”

“So you really have no idea.”

George shakes his head.

The figure removes the axe from under his chin and straps it to his back as it had been before. “Alright then. You can go.” He starts up the stairs again.

“Great,” George says, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll do that. After you unlock the door.”

The figure freezes. “What do you mean, unlock the door.”

George sighs, exasperated. “The door. It’s locked.”

The figure turns slowly, every part of him stiff and tensed. “That’s not good.” There’s a note of panic in his voice. George moves out of the way as he starts for the door, resting his palm against the wood.

George shifts awkwardly, backing up to put as much distance between them as possible.

The figure whirls around. “How! How is this happening! You thought it would be funny to trap some other god in here with me?” He’s shouting, head raised up to the vaulted ceiling. He turns to look at George. “And  _ you _ ,” he hisses. “What did you do to piss him off?” He laughs, wild and manic. “Why, why couldn’t you have just  _ listened _ to me! After everything I did to warn you.”

George barely hears him over the blood rushing in his ears. “What do you mean I’m trapped here?”

“Haven’t they told you about me? The big bad  _ scary _ god.” The figure takes a step closer to George. “You don’t recognize me? Oh, I’m disappointed.” Another step. “Come on. The mask, the roses. Think for a second.” Step. “Or are you actually as stupid as you say you are?”

“I swear to god,” George mutters.

Step. “You’re getting warmer.”

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he remembers a story.

A story about the god tainted by hubris. The mask-wearing monster of the night. Be wary of nightmares, parents would warn their children. Be wary or  _ he’ll _ come to steal you away.

A story about a god trapped in a cage of his own making. For the good of all people, they would say.

A story about a god named Dream.

There’s a difference between fear and terror. Fear is an emotion George was much accustomed to. He has gotten used to it, living in a monster infested village. It’s a steady companion through the nights.

But terror? You can’t grow used to terror. Terror is water filling your lungs as you drown. Terror is knowing you have no options left. Terror is staring into the eyes of an angry god with the power to kill you right where you stand. Terror is knowing you have nowhere to run.

George knows fear. George isn’t afraid. He’s terrified. “I—”

Dream sighs. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”

He nods.

“Well, I’m not going to kill you if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re the first person I’ve seen in… a while.”

George doesn’t quite believe him, but he doesn’t tell him that. “I wasn’t.”

“Sure.” Dream shifts. He looks uncomfortable. George has never heard of a god looking uncomfortable. “So what did you do to piss Techno off?”

“Techno?”

“Yeah. What godly duty did you fuck up to get put here with me?”

George laughs before he can stop himself. “What do you mean... I’m not a god.”

“You’re not—” Dream runs a hand through his hair (it looks more like a bird’s nest now). “How the fuck are you here then!”

“I just. I mean it’s a giant castle. I was curious?”

Dream waves his arms. “No, no I know that part. I saw you. I warned you not to come and you came anyway. The issue is, you’re not even supposed to be able to  _ see _ this place. Let alone come inside. I would know, I designed it.” He’s pacing now. “I made it like a time capsule. The world keeps going out there, but in here it just stays. Nothing changes. Plants don’t grow, food doesn’t decay. Everything stays the same. Gods don’t change, so we can survive here. I built it that way.

“But you? You’re a mortal. You’re built on chance! Evolution and adaptation. You’re practically made of it. Even if you can see this place, by some miracle, you should have died the  _ minute _ you stepped inside!”

“I— I’m supposed to be dead?”

Dream nods.

George feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He blinks them away and pushes it all down. He’s not going to panic. As soon as he starts to panic, everything is over. What he needs is to find out how to escape this place. He turns, spotting the cat, sprawled lazily on the ground. “What,” George says, pointing at it, “about that?”

He shakes his head. “Patches was a gift from my mother, fashioned from the same things all gods are made of. Designed to keep me sane, I guess.”

Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t say— “Not sure it worked very well,” George mutters under his breath.  _ Fuck. _

Before he can hastily apologize, he hears what sounds like a high pitched whistle. Dream is doubled over with laughter. Through the mask, George can see his eyes shining.

“You,” he says between wheezes, “are taking this remarkably well.”

George isn’t, but he doesn’t need Dream to know that.

“What’s your name, by the way?”

“George.”

“George,” he repeats. “That’s a good name.” He kneels to the ground, scooping the cat (Patches?) into his arms. “I’ll see you later George. Feel free to explore anywhere you like.” He’s halfway up the stairs when he stops again. “Just— don’t go anywhere near the third floor, got it?”

“Got it.”

And then he’s gone.

George feels his legs buckle underneath him and suddenly, he’s on his knees.

He stays there like that for what seems like hours, still and unmoving. The candles around him stay lit; he doesn’t even think they’re melting.

Is Sapnap looking for him? Has he even noticed George is gone? He should have written a note. Why hadn’t he written a note?

It’ll be okay. He’s doing alright, he’s not panicking. He’s smart, he’ll figure out a way out of this. He’ll escape and then he’ll be able to go home and talk to Sapnap again. It’ll be fine.

Something bumps his hand and he looks down. There, butting her soft head against his hand, is Patches.

“I thought you were with… You know what? Never mind.”

She nips at one of his fingers and then darts into one of the dimly lit corridors. George gets to his feet, reluctantly, grabbing one of the larger candle holders nearby.

“Cat? Uhhh… Patches?” he calls.

Down the hall he can hear a faint meow.

He sighs. He may as well follow her. He’s got nothing better to do.

The corridor smells slightly musty, but he can see where he’s going, at least.

Patches leads him through several hallways before she settles on a door. It opens with a light push.

There are bookshelves towering above him, dusty with disuse. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been inside for a while. There’s an unlit fireplace to his right, but it looks as though it’s been lit recently. That’s odd. Unused bookshelves, but a used fireplace. Maybe Dream just likes to keep warm in here. Do gods even get cold?

He walks closer to the fireplace. Above it is a large, ornate frame in gold. It’s gaudy and covered with a black cloth. Upon closer inspection, George notices a corner of a painted canvas peeking out from underneath the cloth. A covered painting…

Well, Dream did say he was free to explore the area.

George sets the candle holder down and pulls the cloth off the painting. It falls away with a dramatic fwoosh, revealing a portrait underneath. It’s full length and set in what looks like a study. There’s a set of balcony doors that are open in the background, revealing a telescope and a wash of stars. The man in the painting is tall and wearing an elegantly tailored suit. There’s a glass of wine in one of his hands and a rose in the other. His hair is a brilliant gold under the bright lights of the painting, but when George’s eyes drift down… his face is marred by a slash of black paint.

The man in the portrait is Dream, George realizes.

It’s beautiful, even George can tell that much. But there’s something off about it. Every stroke is marred with sadness. It’s a painting laced with longing. As he walks out of the library, George can’t shake the feeling that whoever painted the portrait made it with misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you liked the chapter! i'm happy to say my motor control has improved slightly. no spilt water this time :)
> 
> come yell at me on tumblr: glow-squid-supremacy.tumblr.com


	3. the promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream makes George a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little longer than two weeks but I wanted to get back on track for biweekly tuesday updates! check the notes at the end of the chapter for content warnings

It’s been three days and George still can’t figure Dream out.

In that time, he’d explored almost the entire castle, barring the third floor. He’s only seen Dream a couple times through it all: once in the library and once in the kitchen, which is always inexplicably stocked with food, though George never feels hungry. George had taken to eating regular meals anyway, just to feel some semblance of normalcy. It’s probably the only thing keeping him sane.

Dream doesn’t eat. He wasn’t eating when George saw him in the kitchen. Which makes it even weirder that the kitchen is always stocked.

Besides those encounters, it’s like he’s living alone. With a cat who occasionally shows up demanding attention.

Which is why George isn’t sure what to make of the card he finds on his pillow on the fourth evening of his (forced) stay at the castle. It’s beautiful and more opulent than anything George has ever seen in his life. He almost feels like he shouldn’t be holding it, but his name is written in elegant calligraphy on the front. He flips it over and the gold border glints.

It’s an invitation to dinner.

It disappears in a puff of blue smoke as soon as he’s finished reading it.

Right. Illusion magic.

And then it hits him. This is his life now. Magic is normal. Living with a god is normal. Everything from before is gone, locked behind a door that will never open again.

For a moment, he feels like a five year old again, small and shivering on the bank of a river with nothing but the impression of a name and the bitter taste of abandonment on his tongue. No memories to speak of but those echoes of affection from someone long gone. It’s a stale memory now, marred by years of resentment, and it aches inside him, fierce and throbbing. He’s there again now isn’t he. At the bank of another river. Only this time he’s the one who put himself there. And there’s no way back across, no way back to Sapnap and the village that took him in when he was alone.

He takes a breath. He’s going to be okay. He just has to hold out until he finds a way out.

Just a little longer.

Whatever George was expecting from dinner, this wasn’t it.

The dining room (George found it ages ago when exploring) is cast in candle light as most of the castle was. But the table, which had been covered in cloth before, is now gleaming as if brand new. Floors once cracked and mildewed are now polished and whole. The chandelier above him is glinting. Magic, it had to be.

And there, at the head of the table, is Dream. He’s leaning back in his chair, long fingers settled under his chin, everything about him dripping confidence. Typical for a god, but George can’t help but think it looks strange on Dream.

“George. Hello.”

George startles. “Hi.” He sits awkwardly in the chair closest to the door. Which also happens to be the one farthest from Dream.

“You can come closer, you know. I’m not as bloodthirsty as they say I am,” Dream says, lightly. There’s a bitterness under his words that George barely picks up on. Touchy subject maybe? But then again, murder usually is…

“Right.” George gets up and takes a seat, closer to Dream this time. From this close up, George can see the crudely drawn smiley face on his mask. It’s a little creepy (as if this entire situation isn’t). It strikes him as odd though. Not that he’s wearing it now; even children know looking at a god in their true form is deadly. No, it’s strange that he’d been wearing it then. When George had first arrived. It wasn’t like there were any other mortals hanging around the castle before George had arrived. So who had he been protecting?

Dream seems to notice his gaze. “Is it the—” He points at his mask.

George flushes. “Oh I just—” He stops. Collects his thoughts. “Why were you wearing it when I came in?”

“Oh.” Dream taps a finger on the table, considering. “I like how it looks,” he says flatly.

George frowns, but he doesn’t press further.

There’s an awkward pause before Dream says, “Shall we eat?”

“Sure.” He wonders briefly if Dream cooked, but before he can imagine Dream (a god) cooking food, Dream waves a hand over the table and a veritable feast appears. There’s bread piled in woven baskets and steaming bowls of stew, but the crown jewel of the table is the whole cooked turkey settled in the middle of the table. George can barely take it all in.

He’s never going to get used to this.

He grabs some bread and a bit of what looks like chicken stew and begins to eat. It’s good. Really good, actually. The bread doesn’t taste as good as the homemade bread George and Sapnap used make at home, but—

George stops that line of thought abruptly.

When he looks back up from the food, Dream is looking at him. Dream glances back down immediately. George notices belatedly that he hasn’t eaten anything.

“Are you just going to watch me?”

Dream laughs. “I don’t eat in front of people.”

He doesn’t want to take the mask off, George figures.

“Do you like it? I don’t know what mortals eat or what you’d like, so I just… summoned whatever I could think of.”

If George didn’t know better, he’d think it’s sweet.

“It’s good.”

“Of course it is,” Dream says, smug.

George grits his teeth. “Homemade bread is better, though.”

“What?” Dream says, straightening in his chair. “That can’t be possible. It’s literally the exact same thing.”

He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. “Magic just doesn’t beat the real thing, I guess.” Bread always tastes better when you put work into it, George _knows_ this.

“Why? That makes no sense!”

“Bake real bread and we can talk,” George says, smirking. He’s won. There’s no way a god would agree—

“Fine.”

George pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“I’ll bake _real_ bread.” He’s leaning back again, but there’s a slight stiffness to him. Like he’s nervous.

Huh.

Okay.

They finish the rest of dinner in a silence less awkward than before. For the first time since he’d wandered into the castle, George doesn’t go to sleep angry.

They attempt baking bread the next morning.

It’s a disaster.

Dream conjures the ingredients out of thin air (George is so surprised he nearly falls off the counter he’s perched on) and they spend half an hour searching for measuring cups in the kitchen before Dream gives up and conjures those too.

With all their utensils and ingredients assembled, George figures they’ll finish without too many snags.

He’s wrong.

They make it to the first rise without issues (aside from the streaks of flour in Dream’s hair from him running his hands through it).

Then they settle down to wait.

And therein lies the problem. The waiting.

George has vastly underestimated how boring baking is. Usually, He’d test the swords he’d made the night before or play cards with Sapnap while he waited for the dough to rise.

But here all he has are his thoughts and Dream, who, it turns out, is less than competent in the kitchen.

He’s trying very hard not to think about Sapnap and how much he misses him, but the thoughts are there, just under the sea of calm George is maintaining as well as he can. One misstep, one stroke into the wrong topic, the wrong thought, and he’ll be pulled into the riptide of panic lurking there. It’s all he can do to remain afloat, let alone avoid the fear lurking barely beneath the surface.

“And here I thought you were the expert,” Dream says as George checks the dough for the fourth time. George barely hears him. He’s trying to distract himself.

It’s not working; his knuckles are white on the rim of the glass bowl. If he stops holding on, it’ll all flood in, all of those feelings he’s so desperately pushing away. The soreness curling around the joints of his fingers is the only thing stopping him from thinking about _it_ so he can’t stop holding on to this stupid glass bowl and why had he even suggested bread in the first place, what had he been thinking? He’s breathing hard and it takes him a moment to realize he’s crying.

He lifts a shaking finger to his cheek, touching the wet skin there as if he’s making sure it’s real. As if anything is real in this castle of illusions. Not even the food. Not even him, this pathetic excuse for a normal human. Alive when he should not be.

There are so many questions here, so much unknown, and here he is, the biggest question of them all. A question in a castle of secrets. He’s stupid if he thinks he’ll find any answers.

He feels something touch him, warm and alive and real and he stops.

“—eorge. George!”

Everything comes back into focus.

Dream’s hand is on his shoulder. His name is on Dream’s lips.

“Are you alright?” Dream says. His voice is soft. Gentle, even.

George shakes his head.

“Come.” Dream guides him out of the kitchen and onto the steps. He sits, motioning for George to do the same. “It’s more open here.”

He squeezes his eyes closed. He’s crying in earnest now, tears splashing onto the marble of the staircase where he and Dream are sitting. He’s breathing hard, ragged and broken, close to sobbing. “I’m sorry,” he tries to say, but he can’t finish, not when he can barely get a syllable out through the heaving of his chest.

“It’s okay,” Dream says, his hand steady on George’s shoulder. “Look at me.”

George does, brown eyes meeting yellow.

Dream sets George’s hand on his chest and he can feel it rising and falling. “Breathe,” Dream says and George does, deep and long, timing his breaths with Dreams.

They stay there like that for a while until George’s breathing evens and the intensity of it all ebbs a little.

“I’m sorry,” George says, breaking the silence after a little while. His voice is wet from the tears. He sniffs.

“You shouldn’t be,” Dream says, still gentle. He doesn’t sound much like a god, really, let alone a bloodthirsty monster.

He realizes his hand is still on Dream’s chest and he pulls it back. He misses the warmth, but he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t want to break the tentative peace between them.

He breaks it anyway, blurting, “I want to get out of here,” before he can stop himself.

“What, am I that bad?” Dream says, the joke plain in his voice.

George laughs, some of the tension bleeding out of him. It’s not that funny, but it’s nice. Nice to laugh, even just a little bit. “Yeah.”

Dream shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything, waiting patiently for George to continue.

“I want to live and be _normal_ and I want my best friend to know I’m not _dead_ —” George stops. He takes a breath. “I want to go home.”

Dream nods. “Alright.”

Something about the quiet, steady way Dream says it makes George angry. “What’d you mean alright, we’re trapped here!”

Dream doesn’t say anything for a while. The silence stretches on until it’s almost unbearable. Until Dream says, “I’ll get you out.”

George shakes his head. “How?”

Dream shakes his head. “I made this place, you know.” He taps the edge of his mask where his temple would be. “I know all the tricks.”

George rolls his eyes. “Why are you still here, then?”

Dream shrugs. “I like it here. No pesky mortals like you to bother me.”

George has to press his lips together to hide his smile.

“I mean it, though,” he says.

George looks up and sees Dream’s eyes on him.

“I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”

George spends the rest of the day in the ballroom—of course there’s a ballroom—slashing through the air with his sword. Patches watches lazily from the floor and the bread dough is conveniently forgotten in the kitchen. He feels light.

He’s just about to sheath his sword when he hears someone cough from the doorway.

He turns, brandishing the sword at the intruder (more for dramatics, since there’s only one person it can be). Dream is leaning against the doorframe, the large ornate doors thrown open from when George came in. His arms are crossed loosely, shaggy blond hair contrasting with the dark wood of the doors. The last drops of sunlight from the sunset pour through the wide windows at the end of the ballroom, staining parts of Dream’s hair golden. More golden than they were before, anyway.

He’s glowing. Ethereal.

George isn’t sure why he’s surprised; Dream is a god, after all. But for a second, it takes his breath away, the beauty of it all. He feels weightless, suspended in space by Dream’s gaze from behind the mask. He’s frozen, floating. Unmoored and untethered.

It feels like the drop in his stomach when he jumped off the roof of his house with Sapnap, drunk on that heady cocktail of youth and infectious laughter. There was a moment then, the moment before he fell, when he was just there. In the air. That fear, that anticipation, was what he was feeling now.

And then Dream’s laughing and he’s crashing down, down, down.

He pushes it all back, as far inside him as it’ll go, boxed away with every other stupid thing he’s ever felt.

“What’s so funny?”

“You with the sword,” Dream says, motioning at him with a lazy wave of his hand.

George frowns. “What, you don’t think I can fight?”

“No it’s not that, it’s just—” He laughs again. “You’re so _small_.”

“I’m not— Shut up!” George can feel his face going red.

Dream all but _cackles_. “You are! That sword is like half your height!”

George scoffs. “No it’s not, see,” he holds the sword up to himself, “it’s clearly shorter.”

Dream is still laughing.

“Besides,” George continues, electing to ignore the tea kettle noises coming from Dream, “even if I am small—which I’m not—I can probably beat you in a fight.” He’s not sure why he says it (it’s certainly a terrible idea), but some part of him wants Dream to be impressed by him. To prove to him that he’s not weak.

Dream grins, conjuring his axe and resting it on his shoulder with a flourish. “Wanna bet?”

George is going to get absolutely destroyed. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing.

Dream takes a step towards George. It echoes.

“Scared?”

“No.” He’s definitely scared. And also screwed. His grip on the sword tightens.

Dream comes at him, faster than George anticipates, but he manages to dodge out of the way, axe blade swishing where his neck had been seconds before. Dream won’t hurt him, will he?

George’s hands are shaking.

Before he can think, Dream’s striking again and George rolls out of the way to avoid the axe. He manages to get in a quick slash at Dream’s shins, which Dream jumps over, before he’s scrambling to his feet.

Dream winds up for another strike, but George doesn’t let him complete the swing this time. He feigns right and attempts a quick jab to his left at Dream’s torso. It doesn’t land, of course it doesn’t, but as George dodges yet another strike, he sees a flash of surprise in Dream’s eyes. Good.

They spar for a while, dodging blows and jabs like an elegantly choreographed dance. They’re more evenly matched than George anticipated, though he suspects Dream might be going easy on him. They fight until they’re both panting and sweaty. They keep going.

“Tired?” Dream says, during a lull in their fight. He cocks his head. It’s supposed to be mocking, but there’s an undercurrent of concern there.

George attempts a smile, but it falls flat. “No,” he says. It’s obvious he’s lying.

“Well I’m tired,” Dream says, setting his axe down. “We tie.”

“You’re just saying that because you clearly lost.”

Dream laughs and if George’s heart skips a beat, no one has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW// George has a bit of a breakdown and though i don't think it's technically a panic attack, it could be triggering for some. it starts at around "He’s trying very hard not to think about Sapnap and how much he misses him" and ends at ""I’m sorry," George says, breaking the silence after a little while. His voice is wet from the tears. He sniffs." if you just want to skip that part.
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed this chapter! thank you guys so much for 200 kudos :D this is my first chaptered fic and the support from all of you guys means the world to me <3 thank you and i'll see you in two weeks!
> 
> come yell at me at glow-squid-supremacy.tumblr.com and @killjoyace_m


	4. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes!! at long last i am back! please enjoy some minor angst and, dare i say, plot? (some slight gore from "Tonight, when he dreams, he dreams of war" all the way to "George wakes with a gasp")
> 
> thank you so much to princedemeter for betaing this chapter! you're the best writing whisperer

Over the weeks, Dream and George have built a routine of sorts. Dream summons breakfast (sans bread) and they eat together before splitting off, Dream to the mysterious third floor and George to the library.

George makes himself lunch in the kitchen with whatever food is around or left over. And if he sets a plate on the table for Dream, no one has to know.

(The food is always gone when he checks back again.)

They eat dinner together as well. It goes better than that first shared dinner (though George is certain anything would be better than that). It’s nice to be with someone. To know he’s not alone, even if his current roommate is a bloodthirsty immortal.

It doesn’t stay that way.

The pain starts out innocuously: a headache at breakfast or the occasional bout of joint pain when he overexerts himself in a fight with Dream. It’s normal. Nothing to worry over.

But slowly, steadily, it gets worse. Migraines that paint the backs of George’s eyelids red and purple and have him doubled over in pain and full body aches that bring him to his knees.

It gets more frequent as time passes. The headaches, once only appearing every couple of days (perhaps a side effect of the constant low lighting), are now an almost constant ache at the base of George’s neck. Dream’s concerned glances at George’s winces are harder to ignore.

But today he feels good. Light. For the first time in days, George feels free.

He goes into the dining room in high spirits.

It’s empty.

George frowns. He calls out, “Dream?”

No answer. (Of course not.)

He’s not panicked, or at least he tries not to be, as he sits down in a dining chair to wait. Dream can handle himself, George knows that.

But he can’t help but worry a little bit. Dream is nothing if not punctual (arriving for breakfast at 9 am every day on the dot).

He sees Patches dash into the room and _there’s_ the panic. She’s usually with Dream this early in the morning and maybe it’s stupid for him to anthropomorphize her to the degree that he does, but she’s a smart cat. She led him to that painting on his first night and she’s weirdly perceptive of his moods (not to mention how attuned she is to Dream’s). If she’s here, sans Dream, something is wrong. Very very wrong.

He doesn’t want to overreact though as some small part of his mind tells him.

Well, maybe he can just check around. See if Dream is held up somewhere.

“Come on,” he says, patting Patches gently on the head. She shakes her head into the touch and George smiles despite himself.

He checks the ballroom first, then the library and the greenhouse. (George would never have pegged Dream as a gardener, but he spends most of the day there). They’re all empty, and George ends up back in the foyer, panic steadily mounting in his chest.

The second floor is empty as well (it’s mostly bedrooms and bathrooms up there as George found out on his first night.) Dream is also, predictably, not there.

Which leaves the third floor.

The grand staircase seems all the more menacing in the dim light of the second floor.

A quick look couldn’t hurt, right? He and Dream were on good terms. They were _friends_ now. Surely Dream wouldn’t mind. And he’s _worried_ , okay? Dream’s been cursed here for centuries, he can clearly handle himself, but…

What if something happened? And George turned away from the stairs because he was afraid? What if he could help?

George grits his teeth, and starts up the stairs.

Patches follows.

It’s somehow darker on the third floor than it was on the second—can Dream see in the dark or something?—and George finds himself squinting. It smells musty, the air stale and bitter as George kicks up dust. It’s stagnant in a way the rest of the castle is not.

At least it’s smaller. Less area to search.

The first door has a lion molded on the doorknob. It opens with a quiet creak (not as disused as George would have thought).

The room is framed by giant windows, smothered by heavy black curtains. There are candles flickering in wall sconces around the room, as there are in every other room in the castle. But here, they seem colder, as though the warmth of the flame has been leached out of them.

It feels colder too, as George steps into the room. He can feel the chill wash over his arms, setting every nerve in his body on edge. He shouldn’t be in here. He should be looking for Dream.

But he’s curious. He’s so curious.

This is the mysterious third floor, of course he’s curious.

And so he takes another step.

As he gets closer and his eyes adjust, he notices pots of all sorts littered about the desk. Some of them have green shoots, others in full bloom. A perfect, blooming rose sits at the center of the desk.

He gets to the desk and reaches out a halting finger to touch one of its petals. It’s soft, silken in George’s cold hands. He draws his hand back, not wanting to hurt the plant as it grows.

As it _grows_.

Why is it growing?

Hadn’t Dream said plants don’t grow in the castle?

Had Dream been lying to him?

George stumbles backwards, away from the flower. He makes it to the door, turning around to run back downstairs and forget about the whole encounter when—

“You shouldn’t be here.”

His eyes flash up to where Dream is standing, arms crossed and mask slightly askew. His hair is messy, messier than it usually is (which doesn’t say much, really).

George swallows.

“Sorry, I was—” He thinks about lying for a moment before realizing Dream would probably see right through him. “Looking for you,” he finishes.

Patches darts out of the room (the traitor).

Dream steps forward, slow and controlled. “No, no, I _told_ you not to come up here.”

“Yeah, I know, but I thought—”

“I trusted you not to come up here, don’t you understand?” His voice is quiet, gentle even. He doesn’t sound angry, George realizes. He sounds sad. Defeated.

Another step forward.

George shakes his head. “I’m sorry I was just—” He stops short. “You trusted me?” he says, voice low.

“I—” Dream runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

“Then what,” George gestures at the rose, “is _that._ ”

Dream is silent and still, as though George’s words have turned him to stone. The silence feels suffocating.

“Did you lie to me?” George continues. “Because I thought—” He shakes his head. “I thought we were _friends_.” His voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word and George refuses to think about the emotional implications. It’s what he’s good at: compartmentalizing. Taking every sad, angry feeling that bubbles up from the vortex inside of him and tucking them away until they’re so small, so insignificant that he can’t feel them anymore. He’s done it for so long and here he is, for the second time, completely breaking down in front of Dream. Dream, who probably cares about him about as much as Patches cares for the dust mites she chases around on dull days.

It’s pathetic, really. Pathetic to have cared so much in the first place.

Sapnap would probably laugh at him and tell him how stupid he looks. He’d give George some pep talk about opening up and then he’d let George destroy him at cards and, god, George misses him.

“I—” Dream still hasn’t moved.

“You— you lied to me!”

That seems to jolt Dream out of his trance and he leans backwards, taking a deep breath. “No,” he says, sharply. “No, think what you want of me, but I’m not a liar.”

“Then what is this and why is it growing when you said plants specifically don’t grow!”

“I’ve been transferring my immortality.” He walks over to the rose before George can react. “I can do it, in small bursts. Plants don’t grow here, not on their own, but I can give them little pushes now and again.” He reaches out to brush one of the yellow petals. “It never lasts, though. Here, watch.” The petals fall inwards, blackening in Dream’s fingers until the rose is wilted and blackened, the stem bowing with the weight of the dying flower.

George’s eyes flick back to Dream and when their eyes meet, it feels different. His eyes are still golden, like before, but now they look different. Darker, almost, or more intense. When Dream lifts his fingers away from the wilted rose, they glow in the slanting light coming from between the curtains. He’s glowing, George realizes belatedly. Glowing with power.

“Why keep this from me, then? If it’s that simple…”

Dream looks down and for a second George thinks he looks guilty.

“It’s not just plants.”

George frowns.

“It would theoretically work on mortals too,” Dream says, still staring at the ground.

George shakes his head. “No, you don’t mean—”

“I’m sorry.”

“You mean from the moment I stepped in here you were planning on pushing it all on me? You thought you’d trap the unsuspecting mortal here so you could go off on your merry way?”

“Maybe at first but you’re different! You’re so—” Dream rubs at the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “You’re the most interesting thing to happen here in years!”

George scoffs. “Oh, _great._ Good to know. As long as I’m interesting, I won’t be abandoned here, is that it? I’m so glad my future depends on my entertainment value!” He’s shouting, but he can’t bring himself to care. “You know what? Fuck you.”

He leaves, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him and it feels _good_.

* * *

It should feel weird after that and in some ways it does. George isn’t sure how to act around Dream anymore, not after what happened (and not after what he learned). He’s taken to ducking around corners when he hears the telltale tapping of Dream’s (pretentious) shoes on the stone floor and eating at odd times just in case Dream decides to appear in the kitchen. (He doesn’t and it’s not like he can teleport, but George feels safer eating in the kitchen at 2 am than he does anywhere else, so it works out).

Things are normal (or as normal as they can be). No death, no threats. No fighting either. Except.

The headaches get worse.

They get worse and worse until George can feel the pain behind his eyelids every time he wakes up, like it’s one step away from caving in his skull and he feels like he’s decaying, from the inside out.

Sometimes he hears things just before he slips into sleep, sees things in the library fireplace, figures flickering in and out of the flames. He dreams of his hands, covered in blood. He dreams of sinking his sword into skin. He wakes sweating, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

Tonight, when he dreams, he dreams of war.

He’s on the battlefield, sword meeting flesh like it’s an extension of his arm. There’s blood pumping in his ears, staining the undersides of his nails and yet he keeps slashing, a smile splitting his face unbidden and then he’s laughing, high and loud.

He feels the blood first, slick down his chest and then there’s heat, heat like nothing he’s ever felt before, like he’s burning from the inside out until he’s just a shell of charcoal and dust and ash and then he’s on his knees. He looks down and there it is: the blade of a sword poking through his chest. The blood is warm and wet and golden as it rushes from the wound, the battlefield noises fading to a dull roar as his ears begin to ring.

He wants to turn his head to see who bested him but when he tries, the rush of blood quickens and he feels the sword start to move in his chest.

And so he dies there, on his knees on the battlefield, as if worshiping the only home he’d ever known.

George wakes with a gasp, hands clutching at a nonexistent stab wound on his chest. He’s alive and he’s safe.

(Relatively safe.)

He takes a moment to collect himself before he gets up and opens his bedroom door. A glass of water will do him good, he thinks.

He’s greeted with the sight of Dream, standing awkwardly just outside the door.

George considers barricading himself in his room.

“Something’s wrong with you,” he says, in lieu of greeting.

George considers vaulting himself out of a window instead (which has the added bonus of potential death). It would certainly be better than this.

“Those dreams you’re having… they aren’t my— I haven’t been—” Dream stops short and runs a hand through his hair. “Someone, some _t_ _hing_ is messing with you.”

George shrugs. “I’m fine.” Maybe throwing Dream out the window would be faster.

Dream scoffs. “You clearly aren’t. Anyone can see that. _Patches_ can see that.”

“Pretty sure Patches is smarter than you are,” George mutters.

“George, what’s going on?” Dream says, gently.

George feels his lip curl. “What, now you're worried about me?”

“Fuck I was—” Dream rubs at his neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He sighs. “I thought it would be a good idea before I met you. Actually met you, I mean.”

George shakes his head. “Oh, okay, great so you were fine with killing some random person but as soon as you got attached you decided it wasn’t worth it.”

“I was never going to kill you!”

“Fuck you,” George says, taking a step forward to push a finger into Dream’s chest. “First you don’t talk to me, then suddenly you’re comforting me and sparring with me in a fucking ballroom! And then you tell me you were planning on trapping me here the whole time and now you care again?” He takes a deep breath. He can feel it rattle in his chest, beneath the unshed tears coating his throat. His eyes sting and he rubs at them with his arm, scrubbing them away as hard as he can.

This is the third time, he notes. The third time he's broken down in front of Dream. George hates him for it.

He feels Dream touch his arm as he does, fingers feather light over his shirt. They’re warm and for a second the humanity of the action terrifies George.

He yanks his hand away from the touch.

“That’s all I am to you, right?” he says, voice cracking slightly as he does. “Just some—“ he blinks, the tears finally falling from his eyes and collecting in his lower lash line. “Some pawn you liked playing with? Stupid human plaything,” and then he’s laughing, wet and pathetic and it sounds like defeat. He’s laughing and he’s crying and nothing makes sense.

“George, please, let me help you,” he hears Dream say, distant from above him. “I want to help you!”

“Yeah?” George says. “Fucking prove it, asshole.” He draws his sword, hands only shaking slightly.

“I won’t fight you—“

“Just shut up!” George says, swinging blindly. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Dream dodges the strike with practiced ease and George is acutely aware of the blood pumping in his ears just like the dream. Heat runs through him like liquid fury and he wants to strike, to hit and hit until there’s nothing left to be angry at. The anger is heavy, taking up too much space for him to think of anything else. Like it’s pushing out the rest of his mind. He feels drunk on it and, oh, does this give meaning to the saying “seeing red.”

“George stop this isn’t—“

“Isn’t what, Dream?” George says, slashing again.

“Isn’t _helpful_.”

Dream dodges with his strikes, like they’re caught in some elaborate dance and George hates him for a second, viscerally, with single minded devotion. He craves his destruction, more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life. More than he wants to leave this place. More than he misses Sapnap. More than he wants to go home.

Wait.

That’s not right.

George wants to go home, he knows this.

 _But_ , something in his mind whispers, _isn’t this your home? A blade in your hand, blood on your tongue? Are you not happy here?_

George squeezes his eyes shut and he knows (he knows) the answer is no but his hand moves to strike Dream anyway.

“Please—“ he manages to choke out. “I’m sorry.”

He sees Dream’s eyes widen and then his arm is moving down, down, down.

There’s a sickening crack and George hears his sword clatter as it falls to the floor—had he even dropped it?—and then he’s falling onto his knees, folding like wet paper.

And there, on the ground in shattered pieces, is Dream's mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed this (and i hope it made up for the wait a bit). i don't think i'll go back to regular updates, but rest assured i fully intend to finish this fic! you can come yell at me at glow-squid-supremacy on tumblr or @killjoyace_m on twitter (please do i'm very cool and nice i promise)


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